***There's the adjacent room. Nothing but aerobatic conjurings of my wish to collude. Go into it. Lay in a middling side between corners. Demand what lay without in encompassment as attention offered--I'm acquisitive. Fortunate sense over place as time, rather than time as memory is just what it means as duty to be concise over privations' little trouble--out of place. "How can I look at myself in this (dim) light?" Or, "how can I ask pedestrian self, why to be adjudged in pathless land?" This time?
***
***Our minds make perfect a certain cessation of this reflexive becoming. What is the mind when weirdly effective but dormant--dreams of limbs amble, incorporation of the design.
***I had stolen a heavy doorstop out behind the anthropology bldg next to MI King as it was in its new phase replaced by WT Young library some yrs back. On one of those protuberant bricked-block steam vents, I sat reading Pilgrims which has something P. Smith wrote in Buddhist thought; images black & white of Nepal, Tibet, Mongolia, other places...; and Dalai Lama's input to promote R. Gere's theme, matriculation of the dharma path. At home with the magnetic element of just this doorstop, I couldn't manifest the event of my propriety--negligence in institutional margins, how it incited my conduct, dipping in crowd-herd spaces, but then slipping away with a relic of this importuning, left me thinking of ways to answer for it. Tho' I didn't (want to) care. I wasn't smoking pot at this time before 6 yrs ago in the range of about 10yrs doing mostly without. And the liberation in physical--commandeering space at my beckon, had this harnessing of my senses in a precarious position. I had to fully believe reception Without was imminent. I used the doorstop without intention, meaning upon something but before no door but the hypothetical. The following week I brought it back, dreamt that night of tent-refuge, doorless, expectorating onto the beaches of Dahab--of note probably for Palestinian/Israeli negotiations having taken place within these last couple of yrs here, incurring terrorists' wrath. As for my habituating there for 10days or whatever it was, there were no resorts, or bldgs over 1 story. In the dream's verisimilitude - its truth to the reality in my apprehending say these Egyptian, not bedouine, restaurantuers--their personae, the dream had one of the Cairoene tote the bottle of Elite vodka we negotiated with w/intent to score more prodigiously, actually, ...he's ambling thru the tent entrance, waggling the bottle to warn, what was actually the case, that the vodka would sting the gash on boy-dude's leg. In reality--he smuggled the vodka away secretly, and very hush-hush. Kid probably need stitches. So, black tea was served, camels trodded between us behind tent's facade, and the beach 50 yards to go to Reed sea denying what-all we could see, the sky skying thither--out the framed tent portal.
***
Sleeping in our hotel room in 1000 Oaks, my brother on the adjacent bed, a strange testiment to presence etching into space, had left me prone in some subterranean foothold. I saw folds of light, neon like lit parking lots and nearby shopping cntr, all intensifying suspiring langor--giving it hard edges--green margins, energetic like my next breath fills 10 men's lungs, & not only mine. I'm underneath it all, older than the eucalyptus trees with their mesh of fallen leaves desicating willow-like. I imagined impatience in the treadway aeries-born (of this light)--if I were to clamber up its incandescent arc thru the patio doors. My brother certainly wasn't reifying in convalescence such vaguely sustained conscious space considerations... He couldn't have known he walks this mile in brevity to the equinox of parallel sojourne, me there, him residing thus! Buried underneath memorialized escape from my innocence as the youngest of the 4, I have acquisitive throne of awareness he's been packaging as less thrwarted anthropos figures, not leaving it all to the intentions of painted light-glyphs, I'm seeing, since he imagines his proxy in the world as a hand grappling likenesses - representing an uncarved-block: his stained countenance not meant to lose its intent as shapeless mass of man's wallow. And there is where he's yet witnessed.
***Moms: In beginnings, all things are possible. All things are possible--when you are really unable. Thanks for baring the children of light. It's not that I'm distracted from our distances strung. It is only that when I think the world is feathers falling, everything presented as unfurling times are pathless lands, because the little trouble is only a Becoming, no goal of negotiating you in striven industries (dear cosmopolitans!); your peace bidden in the slightest ways, I'm vexed & glad.
***
Reverence is culture--I may have used your_____to yoke these senses. Whenever the occasion when intimacy isn't manifesting of instinct, the wizened have exceedingly tried to impress out of biological reality paths demostrating cultural instincts. The instinct being his-reign, the father when sad, can't otherwise see his son but impossibly sad too. A blessing, confessional for the son. If thinking as much, I'm assenting to take the self-same planet, bomb atomic til the next load... --I was like 16, thought equinamity could be instinctual terrain. Self-expression = apprehension of utility in the empirical burden. Reverence demands ritual--yes I love her like ...just there before us, whereas affection gives man up to roiling wet mind, hard-wired, brick ubiquity, to dethrone convenience: arbeit macht mame loshen, work makes the mother tongue.
Black bubble bouncing ryddim--in the sink of self-process... Murke and resignation.
Washing dishes, life exquisite dust plashes as if this home is under the same catharsis, and a little bubble less than a 1/4 inch diameter wafts up thru thermals to my rt. I'm (verifiably weird) thinking, "hate" him now... Hmm, now? I don't know why I should hate anything or anyone, but I look at it quail-eyed, paranoic. Perfect glistening, getting to live by a wandered trajectory-- it is the tincture of the measure from some body conscious-ness? I'm rinsing the soap off my fingers w/opportunity to sweep a damp finger to my eye. Warm, scratchy feeling--a thing worthy of dreamtimes. Looking again to my side, a ploy of my sup flashes in my mind, then the bubble which had been above me, drops in a deflated scrabble vertical flap.
***
***The resolve is when I can dao onto authenticity. Really, mine is an irreverent and plaintive cry. A lament thru a parched sentence of music's potent succour =proxied with psychedelia in reggae's way-of-it & some felaheen sounds thru Hamza al-Din, those sounds arriving like my neighborhood streets unfurl--again in some mesmerizing brand. Irreverent, since I'm snubbed in finding the promised rose garden... (any special knowledge). Not realizing mine--is expected, but an Other is radicalized in all the kaleidoscopic proportions... specter is seamless virtue and still waters--the rest from worthless identity campaigns. To eschew rastafarian or judaism, you might expect implcit confidence is a sorry excuse for reverence in some so-called Provenance in the embodiment (say some fixed point in time=in messianic expectations, perhaps) of holiness occurring within the grasp of a man--temporality all but unknown in humilty, for some. But... Mainly I disagree that my family accepts few comers--in my head, as in something conservative pinging the interior self with perfect attention & regard. --all the foment of divided self. If you're half of something, the probity into the other half's possibilities is sovereign in our embrace of something feeling like a conscious crowd. However, family is only going to relinquish me toward student agency and maybe in terrible populations of silent throes they wait to be discovered... seen (then) as irrecognizably Core-culture, so obstensibly from Without, oppose my conventions, immanent.
Why is everything the last song I'll ever hear? Like, realizing a sense of a maurading Nov's rain, puddles like cheerful cups there to drain--in sublime feast of the senses. If fountainsky is the limit--give me that roof. Funksome thing (I bet that's been used) playing on cassette player some yrs back, I come up to a hill & I turn to corporeal heat of self--I ask, if now, then what? Burroughs selling pyretheum in reflection as his I apprehend, is his character's passage from Mrs so & so's kitchen out storm door - it framing the blue dome, where her son's imminent return emanates. His folky atmosphere there with her and her distraction as an If Only--untypically yields to this intuiting I would have reason to while away 10 houses back. Just the sky actually not really asking for my sabbatical, looking all in improbable hand's reach...
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